


Twilight Spill

by zarabithia



Series: Twilight Universe [1]
Category: DCU (Comics)
Genre: Growing Old Together, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-01-05
Updated: 2007-01-05
Packaged: 2019-05-19 22:30:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,122
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14882426
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zarabithia/pseuds/zarabithia
Summary: Some years in the future, Clark is quite accustomed to parties at Wayne Manor.  The addition of scars changes the routine a bit, but not by much.





	Twilight Spill

Over the years, Clark’s attended more than his fair share of parties at Wayne Manor. The novelty of his presence has since worn off among the Gotham elite. These days he's able to fade effortlessly against open double doors leading out onto the balcony. He relaxes with perfected measured care against the frame as the last rays of Gotham’s twilight spill onto the ballroom floor and takes pleasure in being ignored by all save one.  
  
Clark bites back a smile as he watches his longtime lover. Bruce is deep in the throes of his playboy persona and won't be emerging until the last drop of Champaign has been drunk and the last glamor-seeking socialite has tumbled out the door.  
  
In the meantime, Clark relaxes in the last vestiges of the sun’s brilliance beating against the left side of his face as he remembers exactly how jealous he used to feel over the women . . and the occasional men. . . that cling so tightly to a man so many covet and so few have the pleasure of knowing. Many still seek Bruce’s company, so blinded are they by the bright glow of fame and fortune that they cannot see the carefully Bat-crafted signs of affection Bruce sends to Clark from across the room. They’re slight, subtle turns of the nose and mouth, and Clark thinks perhaps he shouldn’t blame Bruce’s adoring fans for not seeing the public displays of affection right in front of them. They might well be too restrained for the average eyes. Perhaps it requires a Superman to see them.  
  
It really _does_ take a Superman to see the noticeable signs of irritation Bruce is showing towards his suit. Clark smirks inwardly at the barely discernible collar-loosening and blazer adjustment. His grin becomes full-blown as Bruce gives into to furtive - if amusingly frequent - arm brushes that Clark recognizes as covert Bat-rebelling against itchy fabric. The man has never liked suits much, at least not of the non-Kevlar variety, and in earlier years used his playboy reputation as a ready excuse to shed the clothes and head straight for the pool.  
  
Clark has more than a few pleasant memories of lounging in the pool himself, and he chooses those thoughts to keep him company as he wanders out onto the balcony instead of allowing himself to dwell upon the uncomfortable realization of just why Bruce can no longer shed his shirt for any audience that doesn’t know about his nocturnal activities. The scars are far too many, deep, and suspicious-worthy to continue to pass as the injuries sustained by the careless weekend exploits of a foolhardy billionaire.  
  
He stands on the balcony for the rest of the party, listening to the fake high-pitched laughter of his partner mingle with the assorted mix of heart beats of those that Clark’s been lucky enough not to have lost to the same war that’s claimed Bruce’s right to skinny dip at his own party. The familiar lub-dubs in Metropolis give way to frantic pounding of keyboards if he tries hard enough while the ones in Smallville match the steady cluck of the hens nearby the barn that will always be home. Lana’s business presentation. . . the rubbing of Wally’s fingers against popcorn. . . Kyle’s pillow talk with Connor. . . Diana’s gentle chiding of the third of their children. . . Dick’s patching of his lover’s battle wounds. . . Kara’s wrists clashing against Donna’s in a sparring practice. . . all such different sounds, coming together to form a pleasantly off-beat symphony whose rhythm section is the agreeably out of time thumping of their hearts.  
  
But the most pleasant sound of the evening comes to Clark long after the intruders have left and the sounds of the party have faded behind him, to have been replaced with the steady sound of Bruce’s footsteps behind him. Turning around, he sees that Bruce has removed the blazer and is currently fussing with his collar.  
  
"Everyone’s gone, which I’m aware you already know," Bruce informs him. "Is there a reason you spent the better part of the party out here?"  
  
"Not one in particular," Clark replies, taking in the extra whiff of sweat rolling off of Bruce. "Just wasn’t much in the mood for a party."  
  
Bruce regards him steadily for a moment, before becoming agitated and pulling at the buttons of his shirt again. "So says the invulnerable man. It was hotter than the time Dick and I fought. . ." Bruce shakes his head as he trails off. "Listen to me. I’m beginning to sound like Ollie, talking about the ‘Good Ole Days.’ You promised once to smack some sense into me if I ever started doing that."  
  
"I lied." Clark doesn’t correct Bruce. He doesn’t tell him that the temperature of the room was a fairly comfortable sixty-five degrees and he doesn’t remind the other man that Clark Kent is far from invulnerable.  
  
The gray hairs that salt Bruce’s temples are proof enough of that, as are the scars that mar the still sculpted chest. As Clark’s fingers reach forward, slowly unbuttoning Bruce’s shirt, the other man sets aside his impatience long enough to lean into the touch and caress the side of Clark’s face. Bruce’s fingers come to a stop next to Clark’s ear where he taps thoughtfully. "How is everyone?"  
  
"They’re good," Clark promises, though he amends, "Polly is wearing Diana’s patience thin. As usual."  
  
There’s a rumbling beneath Clark’s fingers as Bruce chuckles. "The other two were Amazons to the core. This one is her father’s daughter. Diana will have to adjust."  
  
Clark nods, attentively, though his mind is no longer on Amazons. Instead, he is focused on the scars that Bruce’s fully open shirt reveal. Clark is proud to be the only person who sees them. . . and he knows that the battles that caused them helped to forge the bond the two of them share.  
  
But he also knows that each new scar comes closer to successfully taking either Bruce or Batman away forever, and Clark isn’t sure that the end result won’t be the same either way.  
  
"Are you alright?" Bruce asks. "You seem distracted."  
  
Clark doesn’t want to lie, so he leans forward and kisses Bruce instead. He presses his mouth to Bruce’s with the want of the present mingling with the enthusiasm of previous years. Bruce returns both, and they float just slightly before Clark brings them back down as he breaks the kiss. "Bedroom?" Clark asks, hopefully. The hunger in Bruce’s eyes is a familiar one and Clark has to restrain himself from using Superman’s speed to drag his lover away.  
  
"Later," Bruce answers. "First, I want to take a dip in the pool. Join me?"  
  
Clark glances up at Gotham’s full moon, smiles, and accepts his lover’s invitation.  
  
  
  
  



End file.
